make mistakes
by certainlyjim
Summary: Roman gets in a fight, Drake comes a'lookin' (implied!drakeroman; or just drakeroman w/e).


a/n: un'beta'd

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Roman opens the creaking steel door, heavy sunlight fading into the staircase, and its gratified walls, while his hand slips down the door, palm sliding over coarse bumps in the metal, until he slumps against the door, sighing. Out in the main areas of the sector, he hears the noise of the market, and the steady vibrations of machines, but the alley to the rooftop garden is quiet, only he's there, the sun at his back. his hand falls from the door and steps in, boots scuffing against the door frame, and the door groans shut behind him, and he's in darkness, and the noise outside is muffled, and the aches from his fight come to the forefront. He sighs again, and knows he shouldn't've let the humans goading work him up, and climbing the stairs, he knows he couldn't let them continue harassing his Sophia, again. He kneads at his shoulder, wincing, before he stops, taking a breath after a flight of stair, still in the dark. There's no windows in this staircase, they usually take flashlights, or open the sky-window. He looks up to the ceiling, and it's closed, he sees nothing but darkness.

He begins another flight, only two more left, and he prods at his face, wincing again when he finds a sore spot, and sighing again at himself. He's a soldier, he's a leader, and he's not supposed to be so reckless. He was given a position of power, and he acts like this— he can protect, but he can also be wise. As wise as he is able. He also knows his sister can protect herself, she's a warrior of the Aterian people, but she's also his sister. He stops in front of the steel door, shoulders bowed, and stares into the darkness— he's just too reckless. He takes the final steps to the door and pushes it open with a fist, squinting when the setting sun flares in, a gold more pale than the deep golds of his dead homeworld.

Making his way to his father's garden he lifts a rag off the railing, not caring that it's days old with stains, and wipes his hurting face. Bringing it away from his face, brings the dull red of drying blood, and he sighs into the quiet garden. Through the garden he pauses, checking plants and flicking dead debris away, because that's what his father instilled in him. he does this not because he wants to, but because it's second nature now. He'd feel wrong not doing it, just sitting and doing nothing in the garden; it'd be wrong. His father always lightly nudged him by the head if he caught him lazing in the garden, smiling softly down at him with a well-worn lecture.

He sits behind the veranda, slumping back against it, next to the low water container, watches the Earth clouds grow darker and the pale gold wash into light purples. It never really was pitch night to an Aterian on Earth, and when he asks his mother or sister about nights on their dead homeworld, he misses something he can't remember, and he closes his eyes as the warmth fades with the sun and everything cools. He's just about zoned out, when the groaning of the steel doors jerk him awake, and he blinks in the pale night, not really sure if the noise was real or a wakeful dream.

"Roman, man?" not quite noiseless feet move into the garden, uncertainty clear in their heard path, and Roman turns his head slightly against the wood of the veranda, looking up when Drake's legs appear around it.

"Yeah?" Drake stares down at him, and he just makes out his hard frown in the pale night, before he takes a knee next to him, still with a frown.

"Heard you got in a fight." he leans on his knee, hand in a loose fist.

"Yeah?" Roman turns back to the pale-dark horizon, tells himself he shouldn't be so reckless.

"Heard you got pulled by those bastard humans, before you could win." Drake leans in, trying to get him to look back.

Roman does after a moment, sliding his eyes down and up, "Drake…they're just doing their job, and it wasn't— I wasn't trying—"

Roman stops, looks back to the horizon, waits for Drake to shove off, and leave him alone with his foolish actions. But then, Drake wouldn't think him foolish, Drake lives off stuff like this, and he sighs, knowing Drake isn't going to leave.

"It wasn't what?" Drake tugs the rag from his slack fingers, reaching over him, and Roman hears the splash of water from him dipping it in the water container.

Drake leans back, water dripping from the rag, and scrunches it over the floor in front of him, and Roman, "I want them to leave Sophia alone. They can't seem to learn that…it was foolish to act on my emotions."

Drake comes closer, damp rag in hand, paws at Roman's face, and Roman flinches, "It's not 'can't' Roman, and you know this."

Slowly as Drake wipes over his injuries, and water drips down, roman's marks come to glow, highlighting Drake's concentrations and spotty white tank-top, his own marks visible down his neck and arm. Roman tries to turn away, back to the horizon, but Drake grabs at him, forcing him to stay still.

"That does not mean I can't stop trying to teach them they are wrong in their prejudices."

Drake pulls back the rag, slings it over his shoulder, and presses his wet hand to the nape of Roman's neck, thumb rubbing over his cheek, "You'll keep getting hurt like this if you do, Roman."

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a/n: a vaguely drakeroman ficlet bc i'm the sucker who chose to watch this shitty show  
a/n (2): also also idc but this prolly ragingly ooc but w/e


End file.
